Ivy Lane: Summer: Part 2

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘I’ve got a gap before my next treatment, Tilly,’ shouted Gemma. ‘Do you want me to sort those eyebrows out?’

  Gemma had been here for two hours and had had a steady stream of clients all morning. Upper lip waxes mainly, I was told. The worst job so far had been trimming Alf’s ear tufts.

  ‘Shush!’ I hissed, dropping to my knees. ‘No thanks, they’re fine.’

  Huh,’ said Gemma, thankfully at lower volume. ‘They look like two slugs kissing. The George Clooney look might work for. . . George Clooney, but to be honest—’

  ‘All right.’ I stabbed my fork in the ground, brushed the mud from my jeans and rolled my eyes. Gemma squealed with delight and skipped back to her shed in her pink Crocs. In the six months I had known her, she had tried to make me submit to her ministrations on numerous occasions and I knew this would make her day.

  I sat down in her makeshift salon. ‘Just do the bit in the middle above my nose, that’ll be enough for now.’

  She gave me a hand mirror and pointed to the hairs she planned to relieve me of.

  ‘I could tweeze them, but I haven’t got all day so it’ll have to be a wax strip,’ she said.

  Sitting in an allotment shed surrounded by gardening paraphernalia was not how I envisaged my first ever wax, but if Gemma managed to denude Colin’s intimate areas here, I was sure my monobrow was in safe hands.

  ‘What a glorious summer’s day,’ she sighed. ‘The sun’s out, the sky is blue and you and I are about to make our TV debut!’

  I grunted, not wanting to risk speech in case it threw the wax strip off course and I ended up browless like James had done on his stag weekend. His hadn’t been a whole brow luckily and the pencilled-in section had been undetectable on the wedding photos, but his mum hadn’t been amused.

  Gemma was very quick; a couple of sharp intakes of breath and it was all over.

  ‘There you go.’ She stood back, satisfied.

  I checked my reflection. Gemma had been right. That was much better, or at least it would be when the redness had gone down. My expression had lost that annoyed look.

  ‘In fact, would you shape my eyebrows too, Gemma, while I’m here?’

  Gemma gave me a beatific smile. ‘With pleasure. And why don’t we do your legs, too? Then you can get them out for a change.’

  I tried to shake my head, but she had it firmly clamped. ‘I’d rather not. Besides, the TV crew could be here any minute and I don’t want them to find me in your shed stripped to my knickers.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ she said with a cheeky grin. ‘It would do wonders for my beauty business.’

  ‘You do know they’re making a programme about gardening, don’t you?’ I said, wincing as her tweezers tweaked and plucked at speed across my left eyebrow.

  ‘Quiet!’ Gemma straightened up and looked out of the window. ‘They’re here. They’re on plot fifteen. Come on.’

  She flung open the shed door and darted down the path to greet Peter and the Green Fingers crew.

  I remained in her stripy deckchair, momentarily stunned, staring in the hand mirror. My left brow was a work of art, my right brow still left something to be desired.

  Ten seconds later, Gemma stomped back in, her lips pressed together in fury.

  ‘I’m fuming,’ she spat superfluously, throwing her beauty tools back into her case. ‘Aidan said I’m not on his list! They’re not filming me. I don’t believe it. Passed over for fame by my own mother!’ She stared at me, her blue eyes glittering with indignation. ‘Well,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘That’s the last time I trim her corns for free.’

  There was a sudden commotion outside. Dougie and Alf were running – actually running – along the road, collecting the other plot holders en route.

  ‘It’s Suzanna! Suzanna Merryweather is here,’ shouted Dougie, beckoning to us to join him. ‘Come on!’

  Gemma shrugged. ‘Might as well, seeing as I’m surplus to requirements.’

  I pointed at my unfinished eyebrow and pulled a ‘you’ve got to be joking’ face.

  Gemma hesitated for a millisecond and darted off to join the stampede, pushing past Peter and his visitors who were by now hovering at the end of our plot. Aidan was shaking his head and chuckling and a man in his forties in jeans and a baseball cap, and a large camera balanced on one shoulder, was openly laughing.

  I guessed this was not the ‘act natural’ they were hoping for.

  ‘Tilly,’ called Peter, his consonants sounding crisper than usual, ‘please can I introduce Aidan and Jeff from the Green Fingers show?’

  Great. By the time I had emerged from Gemma’s shed, Aidan and Jeff were already on my plot. Peter had been waylaid by Rosemary and I could see him itching to get away.

  ‘This is very nice,’ said Aidan, once we had shaken hands.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, aware that I was fiddling with my hair. My skin was tingling from all that waxing and plucking and I was probably all red and blotchy.

  I decided to act busy so that: a) they would leave me alone and b) I wouldn’t have to maintain eye contact thus revealing my odd eyebrow arrangement. I grabbed my little courgette plant and settled myself back in the space in front of the broad beans.

  ‘OK if we watch for a minute?’ asked Aidan.

  ‘Sure,’ I said with a shrug as I dug a deep hole and sprinkled in some fertilizer.

  Aidan sauntered up towards the shed and rested a Converse trainer on my bench. He was wearing a sand-coloured shirt with sleeves rolled up and combat trousers with lots of pockets. He would look more at home on safari than filming in suburbia.

  ‘What are you up to today?’ he asked casually.

  I glanced over to him.

  My Wedgwood-blue shed, flanked by pots of Roy’s sweet peas and colourful herbs, was like a page from a Cath Kidston catalogue. I would take a picture of that and frame it so that I could look at it yearningly all through winter. I would wait until he’d gone, though, even if he did add a certain focal point to the scene.

  ‘Planting out my courgette,’ I said politely.

  I was vaguely aware of Jeff edging along the path, but chose not to look. At least he wasn’t talking.

  ‘Just the one?’

  ‘You only need one plant on a plot this size; it might look small now but it will yield up to five kilos of courgettes all by itself,’ I said, sounding for all the world as if I knew what I was talking about. ‘That’s quite enough for one person.’

  ‘I see.’

  Something in his tone made me look up again. His dark eyes met mine and I felt my heart flip like a pancake.

  He was making me so nervous.

  I pressed the earth in around the base of the plant and jumped up to fetch the watering can. I’d filled it earlier and it was very heavy. Water slopped onto my jeans and I tutted.

  ‘Wow. That’s a lot of water,’ he chuckled, after I had virtually drowned it.

  He was right, I’d overdone it really, not that I was about to admit that.

  ‘Courgettes are very thirsty plants,’ I said airily, hoping that the poor little thing could swim. ‘And the ground is very dry at the moment. We’ve had barely any rain for weeks. There.’ I stood up, hoping to convey that the job and our conversation were over.

  ‘Nice carrots,’ he said.

  As far as Aidan was concerned it clearly wasn’t over.

  ‘Thank you.’ There was an edge to my voice that I hope didn’t go unnoticed.

  ‘This is your first year on the allotment, isn’t it? Aren’t carrots supposed to be difficult to grow?’

  ‘I am pleased with them, I must admit,’ I laughed. It was probably belated beginner’s luck – I certainly hadn’t had much luck to start with – but they had turned out well.

  ‘I covered the shoots with a ridge of topsoil to keep carrot fly away early on,’ I said, smiling to myself, remembering all the carroty wisdom that Nigel had fallen over himself to impart. ‘I’m hoping for a bumper crop in time for the annual show.’
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  ‘What is it about being on the allotment that you enjoy most?’

  I stared at him and gave him a look that Mia would have been proud of. ‘The peace and quiet,’ I said.

  There was a snort of laughter from Jeff. Oh, Jeff! I had completely forgotten about him and . . . he had his camera focused on me. Did that mean . . .? Hell’s bells!

  ‘That was great, Tilly,’ Aidan said enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together. ‘Really good. We’ll leave it there for now.’ He nodded to Jeff. ‘Perhaps next time you can tell us about some of your other crops. And more tips like how to avoid carrot fly. That was exactly what we want.’

  ‘But!’ I said, wading towards him through the callaloo.

  He began to stride down the path. ‘Sorry, we’ve got an awful lot to get through today,’ he said, smiling apologetically over his shoulder.

  I stood open-mouthed. Such gentle questioning, I hadn’t thought for a moment that I was being filmed. . . Oh, he was good. He was very good.

  ‘Peter,’ I heard him call. ‘Did you say there was a lady who specializes in flowers?’

  ‘Perfect, that was,’ said Jeff with a wink, lowering the camera to his side. ‘Really natural.’

  As I looked down at my wet and muddy jeans, the piece of string slipped from my hair. And then I remembered my one bushy eyebrow complete with shiny red waxed patches. Natural wasn’t the word I’d use.

  The TV crew seemed to be here for the duration. At various times during the day I spotted Aidan chatting to different people; laughing with Dougie inside his shed (I suspected alcohol was involved), nodding earnestly as Liz gave him a guided tour of her flower beds and later I saw him sitting in a deckchair, mug in hand, listening patiently to one of Alf’s stories.

  He seemed to make time for everyone and to be genuinely interested in what we were growing and all the quirky little inventions people had for watering or keeping pests at bay.

  Perhaps I’d overreacted; having the Green Fingers crew here seemed to pose no threat to my private life at all. For which I was mightily relieved. Because quite unexpectedly, Aidan Whitby was growing on me.

  Gemma had recovered from her earlier snub and had declared Suzanna to be an angel and even more beautiful in the flesh. She did all her own hair and make-up for the programme apparently, but Gemma had offered her services just in case. Suzanna had actually asked Gemma what moisturizer she used on her face to keep it looking so young and had even taken one of her leaflets!

  I hadn’t spoken to our resident celebrity. She seemed to spend most of her time in front of the pavilion talking to the camera, interviewing the committee or fending off amorous advances from Dougie.

  ‘When all this is over,’ said Gemma to me in her shed when she finally got round to sorting out my other eyebrow, ‘I’m going to start looking for premises. My own salon. I can’t wait. We’ve been saving up for years. That’s why Mikey works such long hours, to build me up some capital. Bless him.’

  ‘How exciting!’ I said, trying to keep still. ‘You deserve it too. He’s a lovely man, your husband.’

  I took a deep breath and concentrated on not being envious.

  ‘When me and Mike got married we thought we’d have kids, you know, complete the family. But it never happened. Mike adores Mia, but I’d have loved to have given him a baby of his own. Still, I got one chance at being a mum and I’m grateful for that.’

  I felt my chest tighten and my breath quicken. Perhaps some people only got one chance at motherhood. Perhaps I would never feel the warmth of my own baby in my arms. I pressed my eyes tighter shut.

  ‘Sorry, Tilly, is this making your eyes water?’ Gemma giggled.

  I nodded.

  ‘So anyway, we’ve put all thoughts of babies behind us now,’ she continued. ‘No use worrying about a life you can’t have. All my energies will be going into building a business, that’s where my future lies.’

  She stood up straight and passed me a mirror. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Tilly!’ she gasped as I threw my arms around her and squeezed her tight. ‘I know, I’m a miracle worker, right!’

  Was that what I should do, stop worrying about the life I can’t have? And if so what sort of future did I want?

  Chapter 4

  It was mid-June and the Green Fingers team were here again. They seemed to be here every time I was: Aidan making notes, or on the phone; Jeff with his camera permanently attached like an extra limb and occasionally Suzanna, breezing through like a ray of sunshine and chatting to all and sundry. I was doing my best to carry on as normal, although I noticed that everyone else seemed to be rather smarter these days with ironed shirts, rip-free trousers and lashings of lipstick. I felt quite dowdy today in my cream T-shirt and khaki linen trousers.

  I was sitting in my shed having a restorative cup of tea. I’d just been filmed again. I’d known about it this time and on balance I think I preferred not knowing.

  As soon as I’d arrived this morning, Aidan had pounced and, in that gentle but highly persuasive tone of his, talked me into ‘doing a piece to camera’.

  So I’d picked some peas and talked about how I’d already harvested some early pods for a risotto. But I’d been so nervous that when Aidan asked me to split open a pod for a close-up, my thumb had gone all rubbery and the peas leapt out and bounced off the camera lens.

  And my voice! I’d come over all Princess Anne for some reason. All highly embarrassing although Aidan had seemed pleased.

  Anyway, they had gone now, thank goodness. Jeff was filming Peter next door harvesting his globe artichokes and Aidan was, well, hovering at the end of my plot.

  I tried to ignore him and turned to the morning’s job list. Firstly, inspection time.

  Weeds, lots of. Orange carrot tips peeked up through the ground – that was a good sign; the sweet peas were weaving their tendrils nicely up the bamboo canes and my pumpkin plant was beginning to meander merrily through the onions. Not bad, Tilly, not bad at all . . .

  My next job was to sort out the broad beans, which were in dire need of some support. I’d mistakenly thought that if I put a few sticks in the ground the beans would throw out tendrils and cling on. But they hadn’t. Wrong type of bean, apparently. And my in-depth research (a look at Charlie’s plot) revealed that I needed to construct a broad bean corridor, which looked like a giant version of a game I used to play at school called Cat’s Cradle.

  Easy peasy.

  Fifteen minutes later, my temper was wearing thin. I’d tripped over the bamboo canes four times and broken two of them, tied myself in knots, snapped three plants and lost the scissors. The ground was too hard to push the canes in far enough and every time I pulled the string tight, the canes just fell over. I would have no flowers left on the plants at this rate.

  This was not a job for one person.

  I was out of puff and cross and about to bundle the lot back into the shed when I noticed Aidan approach, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly.

  I took a deep breath. Please don’t ask to record this fiasco on celluloid.

  ‘Want a hand?’

  I could have cried. ‘Yes please.’

  I must have looked desperate because he grinned and took the bamboo canes out of my hand.

  ‘What are you actually trying to do?’

  I blew my hair off my face and pointed at the peas. ‘Peas throw out clever little tendrils and climb up, clinging on to anything that comes close enough, so they don’t need much support. See?’

  Aidan bent down and peered at them dutifully. ‘I see.’

  ‘Whereas broad beans, well, broad beans aren’t anywhere near as clever,’ I said, trying not to sound petulant. ‘They’ll grow at least a metre tall and if they don’t have proper support the stems will snap. I need canes all around the edge of the plants so that I can thread string across in a zigzag pattern.’

  ‘I see,’ Aidan said again. He laid the pile of canes down and one at a time, using all his weight, began to drive them
down firmly in the ground along the edge of the bean patch.

  I watched, feeling weak and feeble.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’ he asked when he’d made his way to the far end, making the job look easy.

  I narrowed my eyes. Here we go. He was digging for personal details.

  ‘Off the record?’ I asked.

  He stood up, ran a hand through his hair and chuckled. ‘Yes. Off the record.’

  Hmm, I bet that was what they all said. ‘I’m a teacher.’ No harm in telling him that much.

  He nodded. ‘That makes sense. You’re good at explaining things, you’re very clear and concise and that’s probably what makes you so natural in front of the camera.’

  ‘Am I? Thank you.’ I was ridiculously pleased with the compliment and felt I should return it. ‘You’re good, too. At directing. You put people at ease.’ Like me, for instance. God, that sounded pathetic.

  ‘Thanks.’ He waggled his dark eyebrows at me. Gemma would have a field day with those. ‘Well, you can direct me now. What’s next?’ he said, straightening up and resting his hands on his hips.

  I handed him the ball of string and we stood opposite each other, threading it backwards and forwards and tying it around each cane as we went. His knots involved clever sliding loops, I noticed. Mine were more from the ‘left over right and under’ school of knots.

  ‘Do you enjoy teaching, then?’ he asked. His fingers brushed against mine as he passed me the string and I felt my knees weaken. Apart from Charlie, I rarely had any contact with men my own age, I realized, and certainly no physical contact. Even the staff at school were all women except the elderly caretaker. I felt all my nerve-endings spring into life and prayed that my cheeks didn’t give me away.

  I swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yes. There’s something life-affirming about working with children. They see the world with such innocence, such curiosity.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Really?’

  We had reached the end of the row and were standing almost toe to toe. He stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Yes, very. I’ve had an idea—’

  He broke off as Gemma came bustling towards us, with Mia trailing behind her.